The Deadliest Strain

Chapter Seventeen

Having two people escort her was actually better than one, especially since one of them was so familiar with Erbil and the streets and neighborhoods.

The three of them took an unmarked white van from the hotel. Fahimah could no longer stand wearing the camouflage fatigue pants. And it was more than personal choice, she told herself. Dressed as she was, she didn't know how successful she'd be getting any locals even to talk to her.

"We are stopping there," she told Ken, who was driving the car.

"What is this place?" Newman asked, sitting next to her in the back.

"A woman's clothing store. And you are coming in with me."

The look on his face conveyed volumes about how thrilled he was at the prospect of shopping for women's clothes. Ken pulled to the curb in front of the store.

"Out," she told him, reaching over him and opening the door. "Move, please."

He frowned at her for a moment, not moving.

"I thought you were in a hurry," she said.

"Maybe I should wait outside and send Ken in with you?" he asked as he climbed out. He stood on the sidewalk, eyeing the glass front windows. It could have been a shop in any Western city.

"No, you must pay for things. I have no money." She went past him into the store. Two women, who appeared to be the owner of the shop and her helper, were the only ones in the store. Their attention immediately focused on the American, despite the fact that Fahimah was obviously the customer. Fahimah decided his good looks might have something to do with it. Or perhaps her own clothes were the deterrent. The assistant spoke broken English.

Fahimah went quickly through the racks, picking up a couple of pairs of pants, some shirts, underwear and socks, and a sweater. She knew how cold this section of the country could get at nights. Near the register, she grabbed two head scarves. She didn't want to walk around wearing a cap. The store didn't have any shoes, so she had to do with the plastic sandals for now. She took her purchases to the counter to have the shop owner figure out the cost.

"You pay for them and I'll change," she told Austyn. The older woman was very pleasant, and after Fahimah spoke to her in Kurdish, she gave them a large discount on everything. .without any bartering. Fahimah was directed to a curtained area at the far end of the small shop where she could change.

"Is she your girlfriend?" she heard the assistant ask when she headed that way.

"No… she's my wife."

Fahimah looked in shock over her shoulder. He had his back to her. She went around the curtain to change. She could clearly hear every word.

This area of the shop was almost half as large as the store itself. An old Singer sewing machine with a foot pedal sat on a table in the corner. Pieces of clothing in various stages of alteration and mending were draped on the tables and chairs around the machine. Yards of fabric were piled in a corner. Fahimah put her things on a nearby chair.

"What happened to her… moo?" Fahimah heard the woman ask the American.

"Excuse me?" Austyn asked. "I'm sorry, I don't…" His voice trailed off.

"Moo chee shodeh?" the other voice asked. She didn't know the word for hair.

"Ser… kelle…" The first one struggled.

"Oh. Head… hair," he said. "Her hair."

Fahimah figured she must have pointed to her hair or head.

"It's very sad," he said, lowering his voice.

Fahimah hurried to change, fearing what he was going to tell them as a way of explanation. He didn't understand their way of life. Still, he'd guessed correctly about the inappropriateness of a woman, even at Fahimah's age, to be going around with a boyfriend. When it came to dealing with women, Kurds were in most ways more advanced than the rest of Iraq. They educated their girls. The women worked. They voted. They played a public role in this open, liberal, peaceful society. At the same time, five years could not change the fact that Iraq was still an area ruled by conservative Muslim clerics. Correctness was a must.

Fahimah was pulling a shirt over her head. She'd missed what he'd said, but from the women's reaction, she guessed it wasn't good. The two were praying aloud, and she thought it sounded like one of them might even be crying. She hurried and folded the clothes she'd peeled off. She gave herself a quick look in the small mirror and draped the scarf over her head, wrapping one corner around her throat and tossing the end over her shoulder. She left the changing room with her arms full.

"Teflaki," the younger woman said with a sigh at the sight of Fahimah.

The older woman touched her chest with a fisted hand. "Gherngin," she said as she came around the counter.

Fahimah looked suspiciously at Austyn. "What did you tell them?"

He shook his head. "It's okay that they know."

Both women reached her. The younger one took everything out of Fahimah's hands, taking her by the arm as if she was an invalid. The older one undid a pin and a charm from the neckline of her blouse and started pinning it on Fahimah. There was an Arabic prayer etched on the gold charm.

"Saratan…" The woman tapped her chest again.

"You told them I had cancer?" she asked, looking in shock at the agent.

"I told you it's okay. They understand," he said, looking contrite.

She was stunned to think that he thought he'd done her a favor. The older woman took Fahimah by the hand and took her back to the register. She tried to stuff all the money Newman had given her for the clothing back.

"Na, na. Mamnun," Fahimah said, thanking her. "Ew zêngîn e. Mamnun. Mamnun." She pushed the shop owner's register closed and took the bag of clothes from the other woman and grabbed Newman by the arm.

"What did you tell them?" he asked.

"That you are rich." She tugged on his arm. "We need to go. You have upset these poor people enough "

At the door, she remembered the charm and turned around to give it back to the shop owner. She was on Fahimah's heels and wouldn't have it. She had to keep it.

Prayers followed them as they left the store.

"That was very… mean, you know. They believed what you told them. You could see how it upset them so," she scolded when they were on the street. "How could you do that?"

"How else was I going to tell them why you're bald?"

"I am not bald," she said defensively, touching the scarf on her head. "I have very short hair. And you could have told the truth or given no answer. These women are innocent. They are really upset about this."

"Aren't you making too much of this?" he asked.

"No." She stopped and looked hard into his face. "These are Kurds. After Saddam's military poisoned the Kurdish people in Halabja in 1988 with their chemical weapons, the people's misery didn't just go away. Cancer and leukemia have been following the survivors of that horrible crime. I don't know what it is now, but before your people locked me away, we had one of the highest percentages of cancer in the world."

His expression changed. He touched her arm. "I'm very sorry about this. I didn't do that very well."

He had a kicked look. It flustered her. She felt the warmth of his fingers through the material of the shirt. She tried to focus on where she was, what she was saying.

"I'm sorry, Fahimah," he repeated.

She realized this was the first time he had called her by her first name.

"You do not lie to my people. Understand?" She got out the words before forgetting them.

The kicked look went away. He smiled.

"What are you smiling at?"

"You're defending them as if they were your family."

"They are Kurds. Of course they are like family."

He shook his head with amusement. "I can't believe you remained silent in prison for five years. You don't even consider yourself an Iraqi."

She was almost happy that he understood that there was a difference.

"I remained silent because lama. Kurd."

"And your sister?"

"She is a Kurd, too," Fahimah said shortly, turning and walking to the van. Before getting in, she noticed an SUV that was parked a couple of cars away behind them. She shoved the bag inside the van and marched down to the SUV. The windows were tinted and closed, but she had no trouble seeing the military uniform of the driver behind the wheel.

She stood on the sidewalk and knocked on the window. In the glass reflection she saw that Austyn had moved behind her.

'Tell them to open the window," she said over her shoulder.

"Open the window," he repeated.

The window rolled slowly down. There were four people inside the car. Her escorts. Matt Sutton was sitting nearest to her, looking out the passenger window.

"I am going to say this only once, and you all had better hear it," she said sharply. "You need my help. I am trying to help you. But you ruin my chances when you behave this way."

Fahimah pointed at the bustling street. "Do you see any foreign troops here?"

The four men looked around obediently. Agent Sutton was the one brave enough to shake his head.

"Now, do you see those people in uniform?" she pointed again. "Those two are policemen who direct the traffic. And the other three that you see in that intersection are Peshmerga. They are in charge of security. We saw them all through the city as we drove here. All I need to do is call or wave my hand to get their attention. They will not allow anything.. .anything...to happen to me or any other Kurd walking the streets."

They were all listening, as her students used to, so she continued.

"I'm in search of a person who can direct me to where I can get you some answers. Now, it is bad enough to have these two people with me." She pointed vaguely over her shoulder. "But I might manage to explain that. The four of you, however, is completely wrong. Other than frightening people away, you accomplish nothing."

"They might not know we're following you," Sutton suggested hopefully.

She shook her head. It was like speaking to children. "You are foreigners. You stand out more than aborigines in the House of Lords. Either stop following me or I shall just go back to the hotel. I will not waste my time."

The men looked at her, and then she saw Sutton's gaze shift upward, over her shoulder.

"Please tell them to go back to the hotel," she said to Austyn without turning around.

"Go back to the hotel," he repeated after a moment's pause.

Fahimah decided to stand there and wait. Sutton gave her a half salute and the windows rolled up. The SUV pulled into the traffic.

"Do you feel better now?" Austyn asked.

She turned around and started back to the van. "Thank you. I feel much better."

"My old Catholic nuns have nothing on you."

Fahimah nodded. "Thank you. I shall consider that a compliment."

She climbed inside the van. Again, rather than sitting in front, Austyn climbed in after her. Ken pulled out into traffic.

"Did you have them dismissed?" he asked, grinning into the rearview mirror.

"She did," Austyn told Ken. "Watch what you say or she might do the same thing to you."

Fahimah knew Austyn was trying to make light of everything, but her nerves were beginning to get the best of her. She didn't know if she was in the right city. She wasn't sure if her sister was anywhere around here or if she would be able get in touch with Rahaf. And if she did find her, could she trust these people to stand by their word? Suddenly, she was doubting everything, including herself.

"Okay, now it's only the three of us," Austyn told her. "How about telling us who you're looking for and how we can help?"

It would have been so much easier to deal with him if he were a louse, Fahimah thought. He annoyed her at times, but all in all he'd been cooperative and forthcoming. He wanted to achieve his goal; that she could count on.

Ken was battling traffic. The streets were packed with cars. She glanced at the clock on the dash. It was almost four o'clock in the afternoon.

"We are in Erbil since I believe my sister would have come to Kurdistan," she told Austyn. "But for five years, naturally, I have had no contact with her."

"Did she have a house here? Somewhere that we can take you to?"

"Yes… well, no. She lost me five years ago. She knew American troops would consider her an enemy just because of her work. She would not live where you, I or anyone else could find her."

"That makes sense, but we should try there to begin with, don't you think?"

"I already have. From the hotel. I rang up the city offices. Her house no longer stands. There is a new office building being constructed where she used to live. And as far as moving to some other address, I checked the telephone directory."

This was something new. With all the developments in Erbil, obviously, came the modernization of many people having a telephone. And there would be a need for a directory.

"She'd be in the phone book?"

Fahimah could imagine how idiotic these agents would feel if they thought for all these years Rahaf had been listed in some directory.

"No," she said, wanting to put his mind at ease. "She would not be listed under any name that you would know."

"But you know how she would list her name."

"Yes, and as I suspected she's not there."

Ken looked in the rearview mirror at them. "I've seen that phone book. I'd say not even a tenth of the people living in Erbil are in there."

She shrugged. "That may be true, but it was worth a try. This city is too large to go door to door trying to find her." In phoning around, Fahimah had made sure to leave her name in many places. Her hope was that if enough people heard she was back in Erbil, Rahaf would hear about it and find her.

"So what's the next step?"

"I was getting there," she replied, hearing the impatience in her own voice. Fahimah glanced at the clock again. Erbil was having big-city problems. Traffic. Fifteen minutes and they hadn't moved far. She could see the sun's amber-colored heat rising in waves off the cars ahead of them.

"I'm hoping to find a man who, in the old days, would spread his prayer blanket at the foot of the street leading up to the prison," she told them.

The looks the two men sent her smacked of skepticism.

"A homeless old man?" Ken asked from the front seat.

"Jalal is not homeless," she explained. "He is a dervish… a holy man. Actually, he became a dervish after his only son was arrested by Saddam almost thirty years ago."

"By dervish," Ken explained to Austyn, "she is talking about members of an ascetic Sufi religious fraternity. They're known for their extreme poverty and austerity."

"I know a little bit about them," Austyn answered. He turned to Fahimah. "And you know this man?"

She nodded. "Many know him. He came from a village near Halabja. He is well respected."

"But he came before the trouble there?"

"Yes," she replied, looking out the window. "He came before that tragedy."

As the traffic moved a little, two Peshmerga came along the sidewalk. They looked at her as they passed the van and nodded. She smiled and turned back to Austyn.

"What happened to his son?" he asked.

She shook her head. "It was the way of the world then. He was arrested and never seen again. So different from my own situation, don't you think?"

He looked at her for a long moment, his face grim.

"Why did he come here, to this prison?" he said finally.

"After trying for several years to find out what had happened to his son, Jalal was told that his son was being held here at the prison in Hawler… I mean Erbil. Hawler is the Kurdish name for the city. Anyway, he left Halabja with a prayer blanket and the clothing on his back and came here."

Fahimah hesitated, hoping that she hadn't done the wrong thing by mentioning Jalal's name. She reasoned that she was helping them, so there was no reason for the Americans to interfere with the old man.

"We know that you and your sister are from Halabja," Austyn said quietly.

"Of course," she said. "It is no secret."

Austyn paused for a moment. "And this Jalal is important?"

"In many ways. For all the years that the son has been missing, Jalal has kept his vigil on that street corner. Regardless of the season, he could be counted on to bring his prayer rug, where he sits and prays, asking any of the guards or prison workers going by if they know his son."

"How does he live?" Ken asked.

"People drop money on his rug. It is considered good luck to give," she told them.

It was difficult to explain to someone who'd been born and raised outside of this culture how curious and deep people's beliefs went.

"We have a saying, 'God finds a low branch for the bird that cannot fly.' What Jalal does is not begging," she clarified. "What he has done and continues to do is to take a stand for all the Kurdish people."

Fahimah looked from one man to the other before continuing. "That old man represents hundreds of thousands of people who never stop mourning their loved ones. He makes the younger ones remember, so that we won't allow the same thing to happen to us again."

Both men fell silent. The traffic was moving again, and Ken turned at the next intersection. In a few minutes, they were in a section that she knew well. Fahimah looked at all the new houses and shops that had gone up since the last time she'd been here.

Austyn broke the silence. "About the old man. The Kurds have been in control of this region for years. Why didn't anyone give Jalal information about what happened to his son?"

"I don't think there was ever any information to give him. In fact, I don't know if he was ever here. I don't know what has happened in the past five years, but before that, the Kurds were always finding the sites of more mass graves. The boy is probably in one of those graves, along with so many other Kurds who were shot in the back and bulldozed under in the killing fields."

Fahimah's eyes suddenly teared and she looked out the window again. Such thoughts were painful. She'd lost some of the men in her own family that way. Three brothers, two uncles and a cousin. Her youngest brother had been only twelve. He was tall for his age, and that was enough to collect him with the men, taking them where no one would ever hear from them again.

She blinked back the tears and focused on the low white-brick buildings and the people as they passed. She was glad they were moving again.

"Unless they give him his son's body to bury," she said finally, "Jalal will keep his vigil."

"And you think he might know where your sister is?" Austyn asked.

"No, he doesn't care to keep that kind of information. But many people talk to him. The Kurds respect him. It would be good for him to know that I have returned to Erbil. Through him, many will know."

She busied herself adjusting the scarf around her neck. She didn't want them to know she was upset.

"You haven't been back here for five years. Do you think Jalal still goes to the place by the prison?" Austyn asked.

His tone was gentle. She didn't want them to be nice to her. Not these people. She wanted it to be easy to walk away.

"I asked at the hotel where we're staying. People still see him there."

The van was now very close to their destination. She could see the high wall of the prison at the end of the street. Fahimah looked past the oncoming traffic at the sidewalk on the opposite side. Just ahead, she could see the stalls of an open-air bazaar that lined the far side of the street and spread up into several alleyways. There were crowds of people on foot in the area, but she spotted a group of men near one of the stalls, crouched and standing in the shade around someone sitting against the wall. It was the old dervish.

"Please pull to the curb and let me out."

"We're coming with you," Austyn reminded her.

"You can sit in the car and watch me walk across the street," she told him. "Jalal will not talk to me if he sees you. And even if he does speak to me, the news that will reach my sister is that I'm still under arrest. That is not the way to bring Rahaf forward to see me."

"You can pretend you don't know me," Austyn said more forcefully. "But I'm not going to let you go out there alone."

Ken pulled to the curb where he was directed. Fahimah considered arguing with Austyn, but glancing across the street, she saw Jalal starting to gather his things. A boy was helping him up.

"Keep your distance," she warned him. "After we cross the street, you go ahead and pass him. You can wait at that vendor's stall over there and watch me. Even if something happens, do not reveal that you know me."

She pushed her door open before he had time to disagree. For some reason, the traffic on the wide street had crawled to a halt. She began to weave through the cars across the concrete roadway. Behind her, the other door to the van opened and slammed shut.

Drivers were now beeping their horns and cheering out their windows, and she looked up the street in surprise at the sound of musicians playing. Beyond the line of cars and trucks, coming along the street at the base of the prison walls, she saw a procession of people. They turned onto their street.

"What's that?" he heard Austyn ask in her ear. He couldn't stay away from her.

"It's a wedding. People get married on Monday and Thursday nights. This is Thursday," she told him. "Now, get away from me."

The cheers were loud. The car leading the parade passed them. It was covered with flowers. The bride and groom were walking behind the car. The rest of the wedding guests followed behind, some on foot and others in vehicles. Musicians walked along the outside, singing and playing their drums, while women in traditional Kurdish costume followed behind and threw candy and rice on the heads of those standing by.

Everyone on the street, drivers and pedestrians alike, had come to a standstill, watching and cheering for the bride and groom. People shopping at the open-air market were now lining the street, as well, and Fahimah couldn't see the sidewalk. She was afraid that Jalal would leave. She made up her mind and made a dash across the street ahead of a truck carrying another mob of guests.

Arriving at the opposite side, she looked around and panicked, unable to see any sign of Jalal.

"Fahimah." She heard Agent Newman calling her name.

She turned around and saw him still in the middle of the street. He waved at her to wait for him. She searched the faces of the people on the sidewalk, looking for the older man.

Someone tugged on her sleeve. She looked down. It was a young boy.

"Hatin," he whispered.

Fahimah nodded, took his hand and followed him quickly into the throng of people.